


The MI6 Tourist Guide to Vauxhall

by queen_kumquat



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Alpacas, Bars and Pubs, Board Games, Bond cramps Q's style, Flirting, Gen, Is Bond interested?, Life and Such at MI6, Llamas, London, M/M, Past James Bond/Alec Trevelyan, Scrabble, Secret Intelligence Service | MI6, Spies & Secret Agents, potential Bond/Q, tea and cake, vauxhall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:01:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29960628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queen_kumquat/pseuds/queen_kumquat
Summary: There's a number of interesting places and businesses around Vauxhall, so I started imagining the reactions of Bond and Q to some of them, and this is what happened.Bond is assigned to bodyguard duty. Is Q flirting with Bond, or just reacting to the innuendos Bond throws at him?
Relationships: James Bond & Q, James Bond/Alec Trevelyan, James Bond/Q
Comments: 11
Kudos: 33





	The MI6 Tourist Guide to Vauxhall

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by reading way too many often-good Bond fics until the author betrayed total ignorance of London, let alone Vauxhall where MI6 is*. 
> 
> There's a number of interesting places and businesses around Vauxhall so, while I'm missing them more than I expected, I started imagining the reactions of Bond and Q to some of them, and this is what happened. Chapter 2 will appear at some point but both are stand-alones, as would be any future chapters. This is my first ever Bond fic so comments appreciated.

The MI6 Tourist Guide to Vauxhall  
_________________________________

"You seriously think that's necessary, sir?" Q couldn't hide his crestfallen expression, and Bond tried not to take it personally. Of _course_ Q wouldn't want an armed 00 bodyguard accompanying his every move outside his flat and the office.

"I do. Until further notice. Any questions? Goodbye, then, Quartermaster, Bond."

"Very well, sir." Q slunk out of Mallory's office, as dejected as Bond had ever seen him. He supposed that knowing there were assassins around who were planning to abduct or kill you _would_ be rather stressful, if one weren't used to it.

As Bond followed Q out of M's office, wondering how best to become Q's shadow for the foreseeable, he saw Moneypenny giving Q a sympathetic and slightly guilty look. 

"Maybe now you'll leave work at a sensible hour and be made to eat properly," she informed Q, her eyes flickering to James, making clear this was precisely what she expected Bond to enforce. 

Bond suspected those tasks would become both more important and more difficult than ensuring Q wasn't kidnapped nor shot. Housekeeping really wasn't a skill-set he was paid for.

Back out in the corridor, Bond applied his genial demeanour, up to a level that Q might believe it to be truth. "Seeing as we're going to be companions for the foreseeable, why don't I take you out for a pub lunch? Try to persuade you I can be bearable if not congenial company?" The smile was one used upon many a mark, but with a hint of nervousness behind it. 

Q wondered what that was about. Still, he knew that Bond, whatever his faults when it came to pretending not to take missions seriously, flirting with him incorrigibly – and don't get him started on 007's abysmal equipment return rate – was in fact the consummate professional. The mission would always come first, however much Bond might pretend it didn't. Pretended to pretend, even. 

Q recognised it as a coping mechanism. All the 00s had their methods. Bond's feigned nonchalance and faked come-ons were probably better for the spy than downing more bottles of expensive booze. 

Q found Bond's flirting amusing, anyway. Bond must know Q was gay, and surely he must realise Q was far from being the innocent young geek he portrayed when it got him both sympathy and increased budgets, but Bond's innuendo appeared designed to make that persona blush. He couldn't tell if any of Bond's purported desire was real. 

Q figured that Bond probably found him attractive, simply because many people, especially men that way inclined, did, but he doubted Bond would ever seriously do anything about it. Outside missions, Q wasn't aware of Bond going for men, though Q suspected Bond might not turn an amorous one away, if he were in the right kind of mood.

Q had decided that, should Bond survive to mandatory retirement age in thirteen months' time, he would make a move himself, just to see Bond's reaction. For the amusement value. He certainly wouldn't suffer, should Bond actually go along with it. 

In the meantime, there were gay pubs and clubs and Gaydar and Grindr, enabling Q to acquire a man whenever he wanted, in between his overwhelming workloads. Relationships never survived his primary connection, which was to his work, even before he'd been promoted to his current position, so he didn't want one.

He _did_ , however, want a quick, anonymous and efficient shag, now it suddenly wasn't an option. Taking Bond with him was _definitely_ not an option! Not that the image wouldn't provide a fun daydream as he drifted off to sleep.

"No, I’m too busy," Q told Bond. Then he felt he'd been a bit too snippy, given it really wasn't Bond's fault he'd been assigned the job. Only 003 of the elite agents was also in the country, nursing an ankle back to health. And 003 was an arrogant twit. Of the two, he'd drawn the better straw. "Not today, but maybe tomorrow? You could hit Pret for me, though. Crayfish and rocket sandwich, large filter coffee, any yoghurt, some fruit and a cake, please."

Moneypenny opened her mouth. Bond interrupted her.

"No, Penny, I'm only errand boy for _my_ assignments. Get your croque-monsieur, fruit salad and Pret purple smoothie yourself. Poppy-seed muffin, apple and banana good for you, Q?"

Bond spun on his heel to hit the nearest Pret à Manger while Moneypenny and Q were still mildly impressed at his knowing their regular orders. Sometimes, his spy skills really didn't get the credit he deserved.

One of the many incredibly-young Q-branch staff waved him towards Q's office. "For the boss? Go on in. He's busy, but not on anything crucial, like."

Bond entered the small square room, mostly filled by Q's desk bearing a ridiculous number of computer monitors, with an equally ridiculous number of used mugs. "Q? Lunch."

There was no response as Q continued to mutter and type. Eventually Bond placed the food near Q's right hand and unwrapped the sandwich, the coffee by his left, and picked up five mugs before daring to tap Q gently on the shoulder.

Q blinked, took a sip of coffee, bit off a mouthful of sandwich, and resumed peering at some code on the screen, with no acknowledgement of Bond's existence.

Bond could take a hint. He left it a few hours, then sent an instant message shortly before six, asking when Q might want escorting home.

'Ask again in two hours.'

Bond took himself for a swim followed by a meal in the MI6 canteen, which reliably provided approximately a dozen tasty meals and a similar number which were terrible. He was lucky; some creamy stodge claiming to be fish pie was still available. That would do for him, but Q wouldn't appreciate a fish smell in the branch, he was sure. 

Bond assessed the remaining options for portability and nutrition. Q could make do with Soup of the Day and bread and butter. At least the soup was always edible, even when better described as Soup Love-Child of Yesterday and The Day Before.

At eight, he delivered the soup pot and bag of rolls, butter, and knife and spoon to Q.

This time, Q glanced up. "I'm nearly done." He winced with guilt. "Famous last words. Don’t suppose you could microwave it for me?"

Q nodded his thanks for the hot soup, and took spoonfuls while his code compiled. Some final errors were resolved, and a satisfied press of his lips together appeared just before he finished eating.

"There. All right; now you may escort me home."

Bond opened the wide accessible gate for Q to exit, following behind. "I'll need your address, to take you home."

"Or you'll see it when we get there. I'm surprised, quite frankly. I'd have thought your spycraft or hacking skills would have uncovered it long ago."

"I'm sure, if I'd looked."

"You didn't try? Is that your excuse for failure?"

"It seemed impolite."

Bond walked in silence by Q's side. They passed the green-glass monstrosities of St George's Wharf and Q bore right, to walk along the river embankment.

"I don't normally come this way, alone at night, but I'm hardly going to get mugged tonight, am I?"

It seemed an attempt at amiability. Perhaps Q really _was_ impressed Bond had never hunted down his records?

"The river is beautiful at night," Bond replied. He was trying to act neutral, unobtrusive.

"You can't see the mud at low tide, you mean? Sorry, I'm sounding jaded and cynical in my old age..."

Bond didn't need to retort, 'old age?' before Q continued, "And have an ever-increasing ability to put my foot in it, it seems. I'm just a grumpy git, I'm afraid."

Bond couldn't help himself: the morose man before him needed to hear his appreciation of all Q did to keep him alive. Though perhaps thought about phrasing would have been good, as he burst out with, "Quartermaster! You're so much more than that!" 

Q responded instantly. "Did you mean that to sound so much like a chat-up line? This purported threat to my person isn't an elaborate seduction technique, is it?"

For once, Bond was left dumbstruck.

And Q laughed, a casual laugh, like other lads his age would do in the pub at some excellent banter.

"Shame. Anyway, here's me. Want to poke the door? Check no-one's hiding in my fridge?"

Bond took in the modern red-brick block, four flats high, adjacent to two others which had gone for two-storey maisonettes. He predicted Q would be on the top floor, two bedrooms, and a kitchenette with island at one end of a lounge, balcony at the other. In all these he was proven correct. He hadn't predicted the mantel with spirits lined up, the typical computer games, nor the crocheted blanket in red and black on the back of the sofa, and felt mildly affronted by the geek's unexpected normality.

“All clear?”

“Yes.” Bond returned his gun to his holster.

“Excellent. I'll see you tomorrow, then. Can you be here for 8 am, please?”

Bond nodded, and departed. Seeing some of Q's out-of-office persona – seeing that the man _had_ one – was jarring him more than expected.

Q was ready to go as soon as Bond rang his doorbell in the morning. The small extension to James’s normal jog from Chelsea to Vauxhall was no real imposition. Nor was it hard to provide lunch or wander back along the river late that evening, though he suspected Q hadn't eaten dinner. He wasn't convinced that breakfast featured in Q's life, either.

Just before midday on the following day, R messaged Bond.

'Boss needs a proper meal. Can you take him for a pub lunch and return him by 2?'

'Will do.'

"Come on, Q, you need fresh air and some decent nosh. You'll be more efficient after a break. Steak? Pie? Fish and chips?"

Q rolled his eyes but recognised the signs of a 00 with a mission. "All right. I need to go back to the lab first, though, and check on a few things. If all is well, we could head out in say half an hour?"

Bond nodded. He sat down on a sofa in Q Branch and proceeded to play a language game on his phone. More Arabic idioms always came in useful. He was surprised when Q returned in only twenty minutes, parka coat on, unruly long hair combed back.

"Good to go? Everything appears to be under control here. Famous last words," Q added wryly.

Bond stood. "Don't worry, I wasn't thinking of going far."

"The Tavern?" It was a joke; the landmark gay pub was opposite MI6, but Q well knew the food wasn't why anyone ever went there. Bond, in his crisp tailored suit, would stand out a mile among the tight-T-shirted crowd, and was not something Q would ever allow himself to think of while working. "I don't want the George's Wharf bar – I'm not in the mood to drop fake intel for the Chinese and Arabs..."

St George's Wharf was a new complex of 'luxury riverside apartments' in green glass and steel, on the other side of their end of Vauxhall Bridge. They'd all sold rapidly, but almost all were still unoccupied, having been purchased by overseas investors from Asia and the Middle East. The result was the large ground floor bar remained permanently virtually deserted, despite the cheap food which slowly drew in local office parties. Q Branch had had a hunch, and had confirmed the place was bugged by multiple systems. Q identified them as the Chinese and Arabs, hoping that MI6 staff would be indiscreet. 

There had been an all-staff memo encouraging eating there and dropping the odd tidbit of false intel, swiftly followed by M sending another, asking 'for the love of all that is holy, do _try_ to be subtle. You're supposed to be a bunch of bloody spies!'

"Was thinking of the Morpeth, assuming that's not too far for you?"

Q nodded, distractedly. He'd clearly gone back to pondering a work problem. With his mind still occupied, he didn't resist Bond steering him over Vauxhall Bridge, past the building site where the old Government Office for London building had been knocked down – it had been a hideous glass-and-pebbledash Sixties cube, but Bond didn't expect its replacement to be any prettier. MI6 staff used to enjoy waving across the river from their large terrace to GOL staff in the top-floor canteen, then pretending to run inside in panic as if there were an international incident. 

Maybe there would be some decorative builders to watch, come the summer.

"Don't get run over, Q," Bond admonished, as they stepped out into the Millbank traffic just short of the coaches blocking the view of the Tate Gallery. _Tate Britain_ , Bond reminded himself – he'd only made it to the old Bankside power station downriver once, to see inside the new Tate Modern. Not so new, now. It was an impressive building, even ignoring the art. Q seemed to enjoy art, not just from their first meeting. Bond wondered if Q had ever been on the Tate à Tate boat service, which Bond wanted to use just because of the terrible punning name, but had never found an excuse for.

Despite MI6 being adjacent to both Vauxhall and Millbank piers, and ex-Navy Bond always finding any reason to use a boat, the strong tides on the Thames meant travel times changing daily, making the river hellish for commuter timetables and sadly only useful for pleasure trips – and the odd escape.

The Morpeth Arms was a small classic Victorian pub, catering to a few intrepid tourists and various local workers, many from MI6 but also from MI5's headquarters, Thames House, which lay further along Millbank past the Tate, opposite Lambeth Bridge. Thames House was separated from the hideous tall Millbank Tower, housing Labour HQ and various think-tanks, by a Pizza Express and a bleak bar, avoided by everyone except foreign spies hoping to eavesdrop on Five staff and rotund Tory activists keeping tabs on Labour.

The Morpeth was also oddly popular with Defra's Animal Health staff, despite half a dozen pubs being closer to their Smith Square offices. Defra – the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs – did extend to the mirror-image building across the road from Thames House, so it was a standing joke for them to claim they were actually MI5 spies.

Equally, MI5 staff claimed to work for Defra – they'd been grumpy when the TV drama _Spooks_ had let that slip. Bond's theory (partially accurate) was that the Animal Health teams had been banned from the Marquis of Granby and other pubs colonised by Defra, hence moving along down the road. _Surely_ no spies would know that many raucous songs about artificial insemination, or sing them if they did?

Staff at Six, when pressed beyond their default 'I'm a civil servant' answer, claimed either to work for the Foreign Office – technically correct but led to quizzing about which countries they handled and if they'd met so-and-so, or, if they wanted to shut conversation down, the Export Credit Guarantee Department. 

This 'non-Ministerial Government Department' was about to become part of the Department for International Trade, and sounded even more tedious than it was. Bond's alter ego Richard Sterling had often claimed his company, Universal Exports, was a wholly-owned subsidiary of DIT, hence having valuable links to the Government. 

The idea enthralled arms dealers and those whom he wanted to lure into conversation, whilst boring everyone else towards discussing something totally different. 

"What can I get you?" Bond had ushered Q into a corner banquette seat in relief, thinking that the concept of jaywalking – not being free to cross a road where you wished, really? Land of the free, his arse! - might have some actual merit where certain absent-minded geeks were concerned.

Q was startled out of his thoughts. He didn't need to look at the menu. "A J2O? The orange and passion fruit if they have it. And the ham, egg and chips, please."

Bond nodded and ordered at the bar. Q pulled what looked like an old Nokia brick phone from a pocket and fiddled with it.

"What's that?" Bond stopped short as Q put a finger to his lips. A moment later, Q rummaged in the gap between seat and its cushioned back, then extracted a round device an inch across. 

Q turned it over and grinned. Bending his face down to it, he took a deep breath, then exclaimed loudly, " _BOO!"_

In a normal voice, Q added, "Try again, Five," then used a mini screwdriver to tease apart the small device's electronics. Another bout of pressing phone buttons, then he nodded, his grin meeting the very definition of 'cocky'.

"That should be the end of any eavesdroppers for today. Took my new scanner to find it, though – they're improving."

Bond was impressed. "Will I be getting one of those to take to hotels, now?"

"It will be as soon as I upgrade your software, yes. I'm not aware of any bugs it can't find, yet, but we all know that's just a matter of time. "

"A bug that works from inside a sofa is new to me."

"Who says the sound quality is any good? I'll have to quiz Five-Q next time we meet. Ah, here's your fish and chips. Vinegar?"

They ate in efficient companionable silence, Q failing to finish all his chips and turning a blind eye to Bond stealing the remainder. He sighed when Bond followed him to the gents – 007 really was performing his bodyguard role admirably, the first rule of protection always being 'don't piss off the subject', and the second being, 'really, _really_ don't piss off your subject,' - but Q understood the necessity. Q pissed in a cubicle, an agreed compromise regarding his precious moments of peaceful alone time.

Back on the lurid-patterned commercial carpet, eyeing curiously several of the dark-framed photos on the wall, Q suggested returning to work. 

"Up to you. Technically, I'm working already." A wry grin.

"True. Let me check in." A moment later, Q continued, "A cheeky half?"

"If you insist, boss." Bond had never thought he'd hear 'cheeky' in that context out of Q's mouth. He was mildly surprised at Q's disregard for rules, but actually the new guidelines on alcohol were merely that 'lunchtime drinking must not affect work'. If Q was happy he could handle it... "Special, please."

Q placed the full pint glass in front of Bond, who wasn't going to quibble. Q was drinking some pale lager, and was sticking to a half. Probably best. Bond wouldn't put it past Q to be less of a lightweight than he looked, but the teams – Q-branch and the 00 division – needed him on peak form. 

"Have you got plans for the weekend?"

Bond almost spluttered at the casual question. It wasn't a chat-up line, he reminded himself, just Q's attempt at copying normal workmates' conversation.

"If I'm not needed for a business trip, I might unpack some more boxes from when I moved house, recently. Other than that – maybe a run up to Hyde Park and back? Or around Hampstead Heath, if the weather holds?"

Q nodded. "And round all three of the Bathing Ponds?"

Bond recognised the accusation of equal-opportunities interest in eye-candy, noting that Q outside the office seemed to enjoy attempting to discomfit Bond, exactly as Bond did inside it. He merely replied, "Leering at the Ladies' Pond would be creepy and distinctly unappreciated," leaving aside the question as to whether he'd appreciate the Men's or Mixed Ponds more, with their populations of dedicated swimmers in small bathing suits.

Q's small smile seemed pleased by the lack of clarity. Bond hadn't insisted he was straight, work aside. Interesting. As was the tiny hint of pink on the tips of Bond's ears. Q waited for Bond to have another mouthful of beer before commenting mildly, "Indeed. The copses of trees to the north would probably appreciate you much more."

Bond gulped slightly quickly but didn't choke; he had anticipated the jibe. "I'll take your word for it. Never been there in the evenings, myself. Wouldn't want to risk twisting an ankle."

"I'm glad to hear of you taking care of yourself. Good."

"What about you? Plans? Apart from an evening on the Heath, of course."

Q's pile of hair looked affronted. "Too damp. One has _standards_ for accommodation. No, was thinking of catching a new art exhibition – the Courtauld, maybe, or Dulwich. Perhaps catch a film on the South Bank, or home. Possibly a bit of clubbing – not your sort of thing, I imagine..."

Bond latched onto the thread of conversation he was willing to build upon. "What good films have you seen recently? They've added some Korean ones to the repertoire of several of my long-haul flights, which I've been enjoying."

They discussed various examples of world cinema, Q not wanting to ask about Bond's Korean. He hadn't known any – beyond phrasebook level – before he'd been captured by the North Koreans, and Q was unsure how fluent one could become from fourteen months' torture in a prison. Pretty good, as it happened, but the Northern dialect of dour men from rural areas was insufficient for the fast-speaking slangy films of Seoul. Bond was learning many colloquialisms from the subtitles.

It turned out Bond enjoyed local films and TV not only for their insights into local cultures, but also in their own right. They traded recommendations and cited quotes, bantering like any old friends.

By the time Bond was ranting about certain pretentious French auteurs, and Q defending the honour of French cinema with examples such as _Eight Women_ and _Welcome to the Sticks_ , they'd both lapsed into French, Q with perfect gesticulation and an Aquitaine accent, Bond's fluent but making no attempt to hide a slight English – or was it German? Possibly Russian? - intonation. 

"You _have_ to watch Eight Women," Q informed Bond. "You must come to my apartment sometime."

"You realise that would sound like a chat-up line, if I weren't visiting your apartment twice daily already?"

And Q laughed easily as he switched back to his usual clipped English. "In your dreams, Bond! And on that note of sudden reality, we really ought to get back to the lab."

"Sure." Bond took a token glance outside. "Ready?"

"One moment." Q rummaged in his pocket, fiddled with something that looked like a champagne cork, and shoved it behind himself into the seat.

"My turn to test our latest electronics. Right, let's go."

Of course, the lull in work didn't last. The spy refuelled Q at six with canteen goulash and fruit, glad of the good meal he'd given the man at lunchtime, and hovered nearby on tea-refilling duty, letting Q's many minions concentrate on their various areas of expertise. By the time Bond persuaded Q that 008 really didn't need him on the line any longer, and that all the agents needed a rested Q far more than they needed upgraded laser cufflinks (or earrings, in 002's case), it was gone midnight.  
And it was tipping it down with rain.

Bond phoned the Government Car Service, carried Q forcibly from his workstation, though relenting to let him walk out of Q-branch, then ushered Q from the entrance of Six straight into the back of the secure vehicle.

"I avoid being kidnapped by one lot of professionals, and get you doing the same," Q grumbled. "Really, Bond?"

"I doubt it counts as kidnap if I'm taking you to your own home, but so be it." Bond managed to push aside the tired sigh that had threatened to escape, there. In his usual light tone, he continued, "I could tie you up and shove you in the boot if you'd prefer? I'm sure Charlie wouldn't object."

"Each to their own," the uniformed driver observed. "We see it all in this job, believe you me. Certain Cabinet Ministers, naming no names..."

"That's really not my kink, but thank you so much for the offer," Q replied primly. "And here we are already! Lovely. Good night, Charlie, Bond. Bond? What are you doing?"

"Coming into your building with you, confirming the flat is clear. Just like last night."

A huffing noise, but no objection. Q opened the door – a thumbprint was clearly needed along with a key, and Bond predicted the place would look the same as the night before.

He had not predicted the three-legged tabby, nor the imposing black-and-white fat feline who tried to trip him as he confirmed the place was clear, though he recalled Q mentioning cats. 

"Ah, they recognise you now. They must have been hiding under the bed, last time. They do that. I'm surprised you didn't scare them out."

Bond's guts clenched. _Had_ he missed checking somewhere where an assassin could have been hiding? Was he really getting past it? He was most relieved when he re-checked and saw only a small niche around the bed base. Enough for stretched-out felines to obscure themselves, but not for a human.

He strove to calm himself with banal conversation. "What are their names?"

"Tripod, and C, as in the boss." C was the only one M answered to, below the Foreign Secretary and Prime Minister. Usually Mallory managed to leave out the middle man. He was a dick. C, that was. Bond had acquired ever-increasing respect for Mallory.

"Named after our dear leader?"

"No! He's C for Cat. And before you wince at me being so horribly literal, blame the person who took them in at Battersea – they came ready-named, and I couldn't think of anything more appropriate."

Q was smiling, now, and Bond did, too. "Poor Tripod. He – no, she – gets around fast, doesn't she, despite the leg?"

"I'm almost glad. The little bugger gets underfoot quite enough as it is. Wow, she really has taken a shine to you," as Bond reached down and began to stroke the three-legged tabby wrapped round his shin. 

"Forget me kidnapping you; I think I'm being held hostage by your cat."

"It happens. It's the easiest way I get to pull." Q gave Bond a quick sideways glance, and realised to his relief that Bond had recognised the joke. Well, almost completely a joke. "In the meantime, a drink? I'm no connoisseur but Moneypenny didn't get as far as her second bottle last time she was here. Or there's lager in the fridge?"

It was remarkably civilised, Q proving he had not only the dry wit Bond had seen already, but a filthy sense of humour which was kept firmly suppressed when at work. Their flirting game was even more fun when it wasn't only Bond playing it. 

It was just a game. Wasn't it?

James went home before one, grabbing a cab as he passed the American Embassy, and slept soundly for six hours before returning. He occupied himself with a personal training session and a swim, before buying bagged lunches for both himself and Q.

Bond whistled as he entered Q branch.

R looked up at Bond, confused. "You were bringing lunch for the boss? Did he...? He always goes out for lunch on a Wednesday, emergencies willing. No, I don't know where. Just out, to clear his head and see some nature, he says. Maybe you'll find him walking along the river, or in the Pleasure Gardens?"

Clearly, Q had not shared details of his new security arrangements with his deputy. 

Bond was not happy about that. While he might agree with Q that the Quartermaster could look after himself on his home turf and didn't need Bond dogging his footsteps, orders were orders; there were likely things M knew that they didn't – there always were – and evading orders that were given for his own good didn't bode well for Q's state of mind. Bond acknowledged to himself that he knew that from his own extensive experience.

He sighed, swung jauntily the paper bag from the Portuguese sandwich shop by the station, and went back upstairs to MI6's main exit.

Where he found Q testily complaining that his ID card wasn't letting him out of the back exit opposite St Anne's Church, nor, now, this one.

A composed security guard was clearly less worried about someone employed by MI6 than anyone from outside, though as Q started to raise his voice pointedly, the guard might have been grateful for the bulletproof glass between them.

"I'm sorry sir, but Security have updated your access so you can only leave the building with a suitable protection escort. Except in cases of emergency evacuation, of course, sir."

To the untrained eye, Q might appear to be calm and collected. Bond knew the lanky geek well enough to tell from his straightened posture and quietening voice that he was furious.

"Ah, Q, there you are! Shall we go out for lunch?"

The relieved guard replied on Q's behalf. "That would be fine, Mr Bond. Through the side gate, please, Mr Q, sir." 

The front-of-house staff didn't use the Quartermaster title out loud even if they knew Q's role – it was redacted on their database – so had reached a compromise. Q had his identity recorded there as Jean-Paul Cuille, the surname being bastardised to 'Q' by the English.

Q sighed and exited the building, not looking back to check that Bond was following. Once out on the wide pavement in front of MI6, Q stepped up to the pelican crossing and pressed the button. Bond tried to look like an agreeable colleague, merely standing next to him waiting for the lights to change, but his eyes flickered all round him, always on his guard.

"I'm not going to run away," the slim brown-clad figure assured Bond. "I do have some self-preservation instincts."

"Glad to hear it."

"I take it you will be inoffensive and quiet while I eat my lunch?"

"I should hope so," Bond replied as they crossed the second half of the road. "I _am_ a trained professional when it comes to blending in, after all. I did buy a lunch for you, too,  
just in case." He swung the paper bag towards Q, who took it and rummaged inside.

"I've got my own, but thank you – more will certainly come in handy back in the branch." He tossed a green apple into the air and caught it again. "And Alfie will like the apple."

"Who's Alfie?"

"I'm meeting him for lunch." 

Bond waited for an explanation, which didn't come. He shrugged and continued to walk alongside Q, between the geek and the road, his eyes moving constantly while face and body remained impassive.

Q bore left, glanced at the display of motorbikes outside one of the shops under the railway arches, but carefully didn't look towards Chariots 'Roman Spa' as they passed. A gay sauna was _not_ somewhere he was going with Bond in tow. 

Q sincerely hoped that this threat would be resolved before he turned into the pathetic sexless being that so many people assumed he was. The widespread delusion amused him, but only because he knew full well it wasn't true. Far from it.

Q led Bond into the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens – a hundred years ago still full of sideshows and entertainments and all the nefarious offers a gentleman could wish for once outside the respectable City of Westminster, but now simply a pleasantly-green park.

Bond gained the impression Q had a particular destination in mind. His guess was the benches sheltered from the wind by an avenue of plane trees, but he really was not expecting what he saw next.

"What is a donkey doing here? And... Are those Shetland ponies?"

Q walked towards the paddock containing two short shaggy equines and the mild-mannered donkey. "Hello, Angus. And Hamish and Duncan," he added, still stroking the donkey's head. "This is Vauxhall City Farm, Bond. An oasis of countryside in the bustle of central London. Or Lambeth, if you want to be pedantic."

The extent of 'central' London was always hotly disputed, and Bond wasn't going to debate it with any denizen of the south of the river, let alone one with more relevant facts at his disposal than your average London almanac. Though almanacs were things of the past – he'd have to compare to Wikipedia, nowadays. Q could probably still hold his own. 

Without comment, Q led Bond past the fence to another field. A pair of curly-locked llamas – no, smaller; alpacas – and three even shorter versions, either offspring or dwarf friends, bounced over to see them.

Q plucked Bond's apple out of the paper bag and held it out to the largest animal, who slurped it from Q's hand with giant lips and let Q scratch its head. _His_ head, Bond corrected himself, unable to miss the well-endowed creature's shaggy meat and two veg. 

"Hello, Alfie," Q murmured, hand still in Alfie's woolly curls. "Who's a good boy, then?"

Bond watched, amused. He noted the brass plaque screwed to the fence: Alfie the Alpaca. Sponsored by Technical Branch, Universal Exports. An adjacent sign explained his friends were Alice the Alpaca, plus a vicuna and two guanacos, the smaller members of the camelid family, which also included llamas.

"You sponsor an alpaca?"

"Mm. It's part of our CCI – Community and Charity Involvement. This is a great place – lets local kids meet farm animals, learn about the countryside, all that. Or any locals just wanting a change of scene. It's totally dependent on donations, and school budgets mean they can't pay much to visit, so yes, it's a good use of Six funds."

And Q's own, Bond was sure.

"Have you got an apple too? See if Alfie wants another."

Tentatively, Bond held out his remaining Granny Smith. 

Alfie eyed it, pursed his huge lips, and spat a fountain of saliva directly into Bond's face.

Q doubled over laughing, leaning on the log rail fence-top even as he pulled out wads of blue paper towel from the nearby dispenser, for Bond to clean up with.

He composed himself. "Sorry. He's a cheeky git, Alfie. Tries running off when kids take him for walks, too." But Bond could tell Q wasn't sorry in the slightest, clearly deeming it appropriate karma for losing guns to Komodo dragons and all of Bond's other sins when it came to the Quartermaster's stores' contents.

It occurred to James that he'd never seen Q laugh before; not a proper, big laugh, lanky arms and legs everywhere yet not at all tense nor awkward. A wry smile and small tense chuckle in Q-branch, an easy laugh as they bantered in the pub, but this – clearly Q was feeling himself off-duty, in a way Bond hadn't seen before.

"Can you show me around? Do you sponsor any other animals?"

"The donations get used for general funds, not just Alfie. I didn't see the point in asking for more plaques every time we send them some extra. They cost. Come along in." They skirted the stragglers of a school party and entered the covered section running between small enclosures. "I rather like the various chickens. Look at that cock – showing off for the hens there!"

For one moment, Bond imagined a very different environment where Q might be encouraging him to admire a cock. He needed all his experience in order to keep his face blank as he watched the cockerel's display of blue-green tail feathers, strutting to show off his large chest to a brown hen, then decided he should say something back to show his interest.

"He looks like he's succeeding in seducing her."

Bond saw a small smile extend on Q's face. In a more relaxed tone than his usual office snark, Q replied, "He always reminds me a bit of you."

"As long as you aren't asking me to wear turquoise feathers for my next mission! I don't think Copacabana Carnival is really my look."

"Oh, I don't know...!" Q was laughing again, and Bond decided he liked that. "I suppose they wouldn't go with those gorgeous suits."

Bond relaxed further, secretly delighted that Q liked his clothes. If he wasn't working, wasn't on a protection detail, he might have tried to delicately tease out exactly how flirtatious the Quartermaster might be willing to get. But aiming to get a mark to seduce him when the mission was solely their protection? Nope. Too unprofessional. 

Sadly.

Bond's attitude had always been that it didn't affect his sexuality if a man seduced him. Just him being obliging. Polite. It wasn't like heterosexuality was a word he'd ever needed to say out loud, so if he enjoyed stretching its definition with willing partners, so be it. It wasn't that he objected to the term 'bisexual', but again, actually saying such a word aloud would be, at best, pretentious. Most likely, a bit wanky.

Bond's opinion of sex was straightforward: that doing it was far better than talking about it. He was old-fashioned like that. Those who talked about it tended not to be getting it. 'All say's, no do's', Kincaid would have said. 

'All mouth and no trousers', they said in the Navy, until Alec had encouraged him to think of that phrase much more literally.

Thinking about sex, however, had sustained him through many a boring part of many missions. Now, seeing Q relaxed for the first time – happy, even – he would have to add the image of a giggling off-duty Quartermaster to some of his favourite fantasies. 

As Q led him along past some small pigs and a pen of large rabbits, Bond glanced down to fix the shape of Q's arse in his mind. It was worth looking at, he concluded, the top of the skinny trousers hardly occluded by a waist-length padded jacket.

They both watched the antics of some energetic guinea-pigs for a few minutes, chuckling, until another group of children approached.

"Come on, Bond. Let's go eat."

They adjourned to some picnic tables outside a small kiosk, from where they could continue watching Alfie and friends. Q purchased a couple cans of fizzy drink with crisps to share, and they both ate hungrily. Fresh air tended to encourage that. 

"Wasn't there a story about you and a llama in Peru?" Q asked.

Bond shrugged. He replied emotionlessly, "Apparently airports don't like it when you leave llamas in the back of a pick-up truck in their car park, but what else could I do? You'd booked me on a flight leaving in half an hour!"

"My fault, is it? Oh, obviously. Why did you even have the llama in the first place? It's not like you to have a four-legged insurance policy in case you run out of petrol."

"Not a bad idea, though. Except for llamas not being able to carry more than about a ten-year-old child. No, quite simply: I was escaping a rather flammable mansion _rather_ quickly, found a truck that was easy to hot-wire, but the tail-gate had been left down. He hopped in, there wasn't any time to persuade him to move, so all I could do was drive off and hope for the best. 

"I thought he'd leap out at a traffic lights, but I had to go straight through most of those, and he just sat down! Probably gave some of my pursuers enough doubt not to shoot, so I was quite grateful."

"It sounds almost reasonable, when you explain it that way." Q fixed Bond with a stern look. "Unlike the message we got from you that you'd sent from the plane: 'Truck with llama in short-term parking, pls deal'!"

Bond had the grace to look mildly embarrassed. "I couldn't think of a better way to explain. And I knew you would. Deal, I mean. Or your team would, more likely."

"Your faith is touching, Bond." Q seemed to realise that sounded more acerbic than intended. "Poor Colin was quite new, but he spoke the best South American Spanish. The airport parking manager thought some mad Argentinian was having him on, until one of his staff started shouting over a radio about a parked llama. Colin said it and the truck were free to any good home, so I got the impression one of the staff drove it to a family farm and they divvied up proceeds from selling the pick-up."

Q noted Bond exhale. He supposed the llama's ending was a better fate than for many who ended up mixed up with Six missions. Even what sounded like fantastic sex in Q's earpiece would hardly be a consolation if you ended up dead by the morning.

Bond's phone beeped. Both men tensed, until Q realised his hadn't. Bond read the text message. 'All remarkably peaceful here. Can you take Q for some tea or something so he actually has a proper break for the first time in ages? Bring him back in a couple hours? Ta. R.'

"Can I see?" It was Bond's work phone, so he knew Q could easily read the message whether Bond agreed or not. 

He obligingly turned the screen. "Shall I get you tea and some afters here?"

"God, no! I mean, I know I drink anything caffeinated, but a polystyrene cup and KitKat doesn't really cut it when we could go next door."

Bond looked in the direction Q indicated. "Those cows run a tea shop, do they?"

"Plonker," Q told him without malice. He pushed up his glasses and a mass of escaping hair. "Come on, before we get invaded by all these short noisy creatures."

Evading the school group, they walked past the small field containing sedate cows and a frisky calf, and out of the farm complex back into the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. The grandiose name had always amused Q, who felt it a shame the fairground entertainments of the last century were no longer there, not to mention all the copses and hedges and classic cottage-style public conveniences in which illicit encounters could occur. Not that he could, any more.

Some laws he could (and did) justify breaking in the course of his work, but sadly both cottaging and al fresco sex were too much of a security risk for the SCS – any Senior Civil Service employee, but particularly for a Director at MI6. And _especially_ not this close to the office!

He remembered why Bond was walking with him, and shivered.

"All clear," Bond assured him. "This tea place?"

Q pointed. "There, behind that playground." 

What looked like a typical Victorian pub sat oddly detached in the midst of the park. _Vauxhall Tea House Theatre_ , read the gold lettering on the blue boards. Bond took one last look behind them, then entered, holding the door for Q to follow.

The bright cheerful interior was a surprise. The furniture would not have been out of place in a pub, but the place was airy and well lit. Before them was a long bar covered in old-fashioned glass-covered cake stands. Bond had never seen so many spectacular cakes with slices removed; not since the annual local fête near his childhood home, anyway.

Bond nodded when Q made for an alcove with two leather wing-backed armchairs. He took the one facing the entrance, and looked up at the waiter who had appeared. "What can I get you, gents?"

"What are the specials of the day?" Q enquired.

The man reeled off a list of teas, coffees and cakes. Q ordered a Darjeeling tea and carrot cake; Bond asked for the first coffee mentioned and, with a flash of nostalgia for those fêtes, a slice of coffee-and-walnut sponge.

They settled back in their chairs. Bond noticed they were seated adjacent to shelves covered in board games – indeed a dozen chess boards were set up around the room. "Did you want to play something?"

"Would you? Really? It's not everyone's thing. I suppose there's always Uno or cards; Racing Demon works well with two, I suppose."

Bond felt mildly miffed at Q's assumption that he wouldn't enjoy gaming. "I'm not completely unintellectual, you know. I'm sure you'd wipe the floor with me at chess, but perhaps a word game?" A chess app had been installed on many airlines' intercontinental flights twenty years earlier – he was no grandmaster but certainly a respectable club player.

"Scrabble? OK, then. I warn you I _do_ know all twenty-nine two-letter words permitted by the Chambers Dictionary."

Bond grinned. "And I'm Scottish, remember. I grew up with the words in Chambers." He didn't mention how many games of computer Scrabble he could fit in on the average long-haul flight nowadays. "An X. I guess you go first, _ma jo_." 

Q revealed his E, and ignored the suddenly-Scots voice murmuring endearment to show off his vocabulary. "Yes. Here goes." He stared at his tiles as the barman brought their drinks and cake, putting them on a small side table. The cake slices were enormous, five inches tall and nearly as wide. 

"Oh! Wow..." Bond said, swirling his mouthful of coffee icing and cake round his mouth. "It's like a throwback to the Seventies, only luxurious and good." He followed with a swig of his freshly-roasted and ground coffee. "Oh, my. Forget the game; I'm going to be totally distracted here." 

Q grinned, laying down six tiles and making a start on his own cake. "I'm equally handicapped, believe you me! _Chador_ , thirty-two." He found a stubby pencil in the box and turned to a fresh page in the notepad for scoring. 

"Hm." After a moment, James added, "Ha! _Jehu_. Forty-five." He laid the letters above Q's to make JO and ER, and Q nodded with respect, clearly knowing what the word meant. 

They played briskly, not taking more than a minute or two to think. Both were keeping an eye on the time, Bond having confirmed he would return Q by three. In the end, Q won by twenty points, mainly thanks to a round where Bond had drawn all vowels. 

"A total of seven-twenty-six. Not bad for a quick game," Q noted, dating the notebook page with the scores of 'Q' and 'JB' and returning it to the box. Bond drank the last of his second coffee, as good as the first, with a more mellow, vanilla taste. 

"That was fun. I'd be happy to do that again sometime." When Bond saw the smile on Q's face, he knew he'd said the right thing. 

"Excellent. Tanner and I sometimes come here in the evenings, but usually play Pandemic, or something like Sagrada or Dominion. Are you a modern games fan?" 

"I've played a few, but not many. I don't often have people to play with. Of course, Alec and Scarlett created a 00 edition of Cards Against Humanity..." 

Q rolled his eyes. "The mind boggles. And I _need_ a copy, stat. Please see to it, 007. Come on, escort me back to the office." 

Bond did. He might have seen someone duck behind a tree as they passed, but he wasn't sure. 

James caught up on his paperwork and went through five hour-long sessions of training, checking his phone after each one. He was practising shots at moving targets, using a terrible Russian weapon, when he saw the flash of a call. 

'Be with you in ten.' He tidied up and went to meet Q. 

"Only ten p.m. Not bad, for you," Bond observed. 

"Might as well catch up on rest while I can. Safe to cross the bridge?" 

They crossed the road and passed the back entrance of the tube station. To their left, behind the ridiculous bus station un-shelter – Q swore you got wetter under it than outside, thanks to its rising roof angle and non-existent walls – various down-at-heel types converged upon the Big Issue office and adjacent homeless hostel. Q paid a few of them regularly to report anyone who seemed to be watching MI6 staff. They hadn't noticed anything, recently. Or they were being paid more not to, by someone else. 

Bond and Q continued their walk past the new blocks of luxury apartments of St George's Wharf, lack of lights within confirming they were almost all empty still, owned by overseas investors. Bond, Q and other colleagues liked to drink in the dreary ground-floor bar occasionally and leak misinformation, given the place was bugged by both Beijing and the Saudis. Q still wasn't sure whether he just hadn't found Russian bugs or whether there were none, which annoyed him. Also, the food was terrible, though the younger techies liked the giant bowls of nachos. 

The river gleamed on their right, high up its brick walls with the tide. The Thames was a handsome rather than pretty river, Q thought, making its moniker 'Old Father Thames' appropriate. They passed a new Waitrose supermarket as the road swept somewhat inland, then the huge concrete cube of the new American Embassy on the left. It embodied the worst kind of brash American in Bond's opinion; loud, no thought to blend in in foreign surroundings, and convinced it had to be ready for a gunfight. It even had a bloody _moat_ , which also managed to be square, concrete and ugly. It was probably only UK animal welfare laws that stopped there being alligators in the moat. 

In Bond's mind, its only redeeming feature was the number of British armed police outside, mainly to keep the armed American guards inside under control, but with the secondary function of being able to ward off anyone attacking Q or his home, a few yards on across the road. 

Q had indeed taken this into consideration when buying his riverside flat. 

"Sorry not to offer you a drink, but I think I really need to go to sleep early tonight." 

"Very sensible. I'll put that in my report to M. Go on, straight to bed, don't get distracted by that widget on your table. Do not pass Go, do not collect £200…” 

"I _will_ brush my teeth. Goodnight, Bond, unless you insist on checking I've got into my pyjamas." 

"I don't mix work with pleasure. Goodnight, Q." 

"Just as well. I don't wear any." 

" _Goodnight._ " 

If it wasn't that Bond had been initiating similar conversations in Q-branch for years, he'd have to call Q's new levels of innuendo ‘sexual harassment’. 

As it was, it was just livening up what could have been a very dull assignment. 

He escorted Q to and from work for two more days, and into the office on the third, whereupon Q met a deluge of meetings and financial paperwork. It was the kind of day where Bond brought lunch and dinner to Q’s desk, only without any adrenalin rush to power them along. 

They left around 9pm, and had reached the traffic lights by the bridge, when Bond's senses for things out of the ordinary all tingled at him. 

"I think we're being watched." 

Q knew better than to look round. Standard protocol: blend into the nearest crowd. 

"Noted." 

"I suppose we'd better continue into the main line station. It's still sort of rush hour." 

"Sod that. After the day I've had, I want a drink. You can blend in at the Tavern, can't you, Bond?" 

James looked at the crowd gathered outside the pub before them. Many muscular men in tight T-shirts, but a similar number in open-neck shirts and suit jackets. Slender wiry men like Q were also present, plus a few who fit neither category. He whipped off his tie, folded it into a pocket, and undid his top button. Then the next. "Will this do, darling?" 

Q swallowed at the sudden camp mannerism and endearment. "Very good. But please don't pretend to be my boyfriend. Gay colleagues go for after-work drinks too, you know." 

"I don't doubt it," Bond replied smoothly. "After you." There was a small table in an alcove which he pushed Q towards. "What can I get you?" 

"Pint of bitter, any will do. Don't order a poncy cocktail; we're keeping a low profile, remember?" 

Bond rolled his eyes. Anyone would think Q doubted his ability to do his job. A gay pub in London was hardly a difficult place to be undercover, especially as, like all 00 agents, he was heteroflexible enough to seduce the odd man as well as women when the mission demanded it. Outside missions – well, it wasn't that he'd ever particularly looked for men, but there was a reason the Navy had its reputation. 

If a man were to throw himself at James, it would be ungentlemanly to say no, wouldn't it? 'Any port in a storm,' Alec had laughed, back when he'd first encouraged Bond to navigate the future-006's backside. 

As he queued at the bar, regularly checking the doors, Bond became aware of a face checking him up and down. He returned the compliment, adding a small smile. The man clearly thought his luck was in when Bond bought two pints. 

James would have to let him down gently. He adopted a flirtatious tone with the merest hint of applied camp, copied from some guys to his right. "I'm terribly sorry, love, I'd love to get to know you better, but I'm here with a colleague tonight." He extracted a business card in an off-duty fake name. "Another time?" 

Giving a big smile and a pat of the guys shoulder, Bond navigated carefully through the crowd back to Q. Q swigged down more of his Bass than Bond would have expected in one mouthful, then commented dryly, "I should have guessed how you'd interpret 'blending in'!" 

Bond didn't want to argue. "You a regular, then?" 

"Been here occasionally," denied Q, who was. "Makes sense, seeing as it's on the doorstep, yet not too full of people from work." 

A couple men gave Q small waves and eyebrow-raises in greeting as they squeezed past. 

"And provides eye-candy," Bond mentioned as calmly as he could. 

"That, too." Clearly Bond was unfazed by Q's gayness. He'd probably figured it out months ago, being an expert spy in a gossip-obsessed organisation. Though what Bond might be implying about himself, if anything, Q really couldn't say. 

Especially when he'd taken a large swig of his second pint and Bond had broken their companionable silence to observe, "Of course, if you really wanted to blend in, I could always suck you off in the toilets?" 

"That won't be necessary, Bond." Q could tell he was flushing pink to the tips of his ears. Bond, damn him, never blushed. 

Q got the impression that Bond's offer really was derived from professionalism. Or more precisely, 95% professionalism and a hefty pinch of wind-up merchant. He really wasn't sure whether 007 might consider it a perk of the job or not. Q assessed that at forty:sixty, but wasn't going to ask. 

He changed the subject, starting with the weather, and they relaxed into surprisingly interesting chit-chat. Bond had, naturally, highly-informed views on international politics and the internal management of many countries, while Q's role supporting the analysts with IT and software meant he'd read enough fascinating dispatches to have shaped his own opinions. 

James had also had many occasions either to be a tourist abroad or to pose as one; while Q's foreign travels had extended little further than France into continental Europe, plus a few heavily-sedated trips to America, he enjoyed travel documentaries, and listening to Bond's tales was as good as Radio 4. 

"Petra at sunrise is probably the most beautiful place I've ever seen – man-made place, that is. But the cave carvings in southern Afghanistan were up there, too." He sighed. "I was gutted when the Taliban destroyed so many – I'd always harboured hopes that a saner Afghan regime would create a tourist industry based round them. Ah, maybe it will still happen – there's a fair few left. They've got the mountains, the lakes, the views; fabulous cuisine, like Northern Indian but with a Chinese delicacy and a lightness to it, and _such_ a history! " 

Bond took another long draught of his pint and lamented, "Afghan history! Even the last two centuries is a mess. I mean, the entire story of involvement in Afghan: ours, the Americans, the Russians... All I can conclude is, what _is_ the fucking point?" 

Q nodded. 

Bond continued, "I mean, most of my jobs, there's some very nasty people doing very nasty things, and I'm stopping them. It seems worth-while." Another sigh. "I'm under no illusion that it doesn't frequently just cause a power vacuum and result in some equally nasty people getting to take over doing equally horrible shit, possibly in even more efficient ways, but, at least for a little while, less of the shit is happening." 

Q leant forward as he replaced his pint on the table. "And every kid not enslaved and every family not bombed would be grateful, if they knew. And all their families and friends. We can't stop all the shit, but preventing a little is still everything to those people." 

"Really, Quartermaster! I never thought I'd hear you swear." 

"Fuck off," Q retorted amiably, recognising the deflection of topic despite Bond's quizzical smile. Especially as torrents of crisp articulated profanity were a frequent feature of Q Branch. "You've never heard me after guiding Alec on a... job, then? Or you, for that matter." 

"Just us? I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Though I'd argue we're the ones who get the... _jobs_ most likely to require our specialised improvisation skills..." 

Bond recognised Q's growled, "Is that what you call it?" as the joke it was, and grinned. 

"Did I ever tell you about the time Alec er... was _found_ with a couple naked lads on ship, and convinced our Commander that they had stowed away to escape a local gang, and he was just washing their clothes for them and seeing if he could scrape up some smart outfits before asking if they could be given a lift to our next port? He'd have got away with it, too, if the Commander hadn't served in Vladivostok for a few years and understood perfectly one lad saying to the other, "What is this crazy bastard on?" 

Q chuckled as was expected of him, though wondered if Bond's hesitation in the first sentence was him carefully not saying 'Alec and I', decided it must be, but then that raised the question of whether Bond was omitting that detail in purpose or not. _That_ , he really couldn't tell. 

They compared visits to France and their gastronomic experiences. Q's centred around extended unspecified friends and relations, leisurely canal boat trips, vineyards and local bistros. Bond's included more Michelin-rated restaurants and obscure liqueurs, but the hospitality he experienced in various secluded châteaux generally couldn't be said to be relaxing, unfortunately. 

"Even if you always enjoy the drive back to the Chunnel." 

Bond acknowledged that was so. "Nothing like a fast car and wide flat open French roads. There's a lot of traffic build-up during the day nowadays, whether you go via Paris or Lille; that's why I try to return at night if there's any choice. God only knows there's nothing worth looking at in the countryside round there!" 

"It really is the worst France has to offer, isn't it? Unlike our own 'Garden of England' in Kent, as soon as you emerge in Ashford. I heard once, it proved God was a Frenchman, arranging the countryside to show France's arse to the English." 

That raised a chuckle from Bond, who was still dutifully surveying the pub's patrons as the after-work crowd thinned out. "I heard that too. Apparently it proved God was from the Languedoc… Speaking of the French and arses, have you heard anything from our colleagues in One Direction recently?" 

The Parisian equivalent to MI6, the DGSE or _Direction générale de la sécurité extérieure_ , was scathingly known to the 00 Division and Q Branch as One Direction, originally because the youthful-looking French agents were accused of always running in one direction (the wrong one), but the name was cemented when a new head, their equivalent of M, turned out to have a strong resemblance to Zayn Malik. 

Q shook his head. "Nothing interesting. Just the usual." 

Arguments over whether France should quit NATO again, how to deal with radicalised Islamists, and how best to shore up declining influence in Francophone Africa and other countries where China was muscling in, that meant. 

And the camps at Calais where first-in-family refugees hoped to make it to Britain where they could work and send money home to their families, rather than be stuck in a land where they knew no-one, not the language, nor any means of finding a job. The hard UK line, that they could claim asylum in France if they wanted, was not endearing the Home Office to the French security departments. 

They discussed the beauty of Mongolia's steppes versus Azerbaijan's Eternal Fires, quasi-Belle Epoque architecture and caravanserais – Q had never been to that part of the world but had seen a fair bit via travel documentaries and through cameras when minding his agents. He looked forward to more CCTV being installed in the ex-Soviet states, and considered how best to influence SovFed senators and members of the other states' regimes to make it happen. 

"I'm sure it will happen soon, now the electricity supplies are reasonably stable," Bond assured him. "In the cities in Azer, Armenia and Georgia, at least. And Almaty. Beyond that, taking your own generator wherever you go is still a good idea, along with the six-foot pole in your Land Rover." 

"Pole?" 

"When the roads flood, or disappear under the mud and crude oil, you want to know how deep it is before driving through it. Hence the long wooden pole with markings in the back of every car, especially in Baku and Azerbaijan. They had shorter ones in the Trabbi taxis, admittedly." 

Q added that to his list of travel experiences he didn't feel the need to have. Many of Bond's excursions fitted neatly into that category. 

He wasn't thinking about the ones involving imprisonment and torture, either – torture would be equally unpleasant in the best facilities of Monaco or Caribbean tax havens, Q had no doubt – but while Bond clearly loved the parts of his job that involved schmoozing in casinos and five-star hotels (and, Q was convinced, at least half of the sexual encounters that were required), Q couldn't forget that these were counterbalanced by endless hours in cold cars watching for activity, many a night in a bug-ridden flea-pit hotel or worse – Bond assured him a haystack was often a better alternative not just for the lack of witnesses but also better-behaved minibeasts; many, many hours in barren airports, not to mention long-haul Economy flights on airlines banned from the EU, and, in particular, the multitude of nights Bond spent alone. 

Therefore, Q didn't begrudge Bond the comfort of women tangentially related to his mission, nor any local prostitute or smiling passer-by. If Q were honest with himself, that was remarkably similar to his own behaviour, finding easy flings in the local gay pubs and clubs. The only moral high ground _he_ had was never trying to put his nights out on his expenses. 

"Finished? I'll do a quick recce outside," Bond told him. "Looks clear. I'll walk you home." 

They crossed in front of Vauxhall station, the yellow brick now visible behind the reduced swarms of travellers, past the queues of dejected homeless waiting to enter the hostel, and through the pathetic excuse for a bus station, down the tarmac'd route the council had, in Lambeth's infinite wisdom, decided to name 'Bondway'. Q didn't _think_ there had been any incidents involving Bond to trigger that, but decided he wouldn't ask. 

"Cross over?" Bond suggested it as soon as they were far enough down the Embankment that American 'jaywalking' laws would be superfluous. The very idea of banning crossing roads in towns made a mockery of 'the land of the free', and Bond had frequently told his friend Felix Leiter so. The CIA agent would pretend to agree, followed by remarks on how spurious genetic links to Henry VIII were no basis for selecting a head of state. 

Though nowadays Bond didn't have to deflect with lines like, _'America – where any adult can buy a gun but Kinder Eggs are deemed too dangerous.'_ A retort, 'The Queen vs Donald Trump. You were saying, about good systems to select heads of state?' was all too easy. 

Felix claimed their head was constantly on the verge of writing to the New York Times stating 'no, Trump will not be staging a coup, because the military and secret services won't stand for it, and yes, we have been rehearsing subtle assassination plans just in case.' Though Felix also claimed that with Republicans, it was easier simply to blackmail them, which helped CIA budgets no end. 

Bond didn't entirely believe him, but the lack of reaction when he'd passed the suggestion on to M made it clear MI6 and Five had certainly made similar contingency plans. 

"Nah," Q replied. "We can say hello to the police outside the Embassy on this side. Evening," he nodded to the armed policeman. 

"Evening, sir, sir. Everything all right?" 

Q glanced at Bond. "Tell them what they need to know." 

Bond nodded, and briefed the plod and his colleague. 'IC2 males, hovering, my Government colleague here known to be at risk of abduction...' 

"We'll keep a lookout. More than usual, that is. Good night, gentlemen." 

Q couldn't place when police had become deferential to him rather than treating him as a scummy student, almost certainly guilty of something, even if they couldn't imagine what crimes he'd actually been responsible for. M might appreciate his previous Robin Hood behaviour when it came to cybercrime, but for sure the Met wouldn't. 

It was probably after he'd acquired ID showing he was a team lead for analysis at MI6 – consistent with reality, but several levels and thus degrees of interest below his actual rank. 

Once Q was safely back in his flat, all security devices untampered with, Bond made to leave. 

Q felt the need to be polite, though the potential delight of viewing Bond preparing to sleep in his home was certainly outweighed by the terror of Bond potentially noticing any inappropriate interest. "Are you sure you want to head home? It's a bit of a jog to cross the river at this time of night." 

About half an hour's brisk walk, less if Bond ran. He did need to keep practising in his smart shoes on hard pavements, to keep his calf muscles and bursae used to it. Trainers on treadmills or grass wouldn't cut it, he knew from bitter experience. Marco, the MI6 lead physiotherapist, was the only member of Medical whom Bond both respected and obeyed. 

"I'll get a cab from Vauxhall. It's really not a problem. Goodnight, Q." 

He had meant to, but then a 360 bus came past just as he reached the Vauxhall Bridge bus stop, so he accepted the cheap karma and let it carry him to the corner of his road in Chelsea. 

The next two days might have included someone watching them as they left MI6 via the geeks' exit, but certainly by the time they'd passed the Nine Elms Sainsbury's, Bond was sure no-one was. 

The following day, Q actually left early. Admittedly this was still past seven, but as his must-not-call-them-Minions were impressed, it counted. Bond was also surprised, but managed not to show it. 

"Straight home?" 

A bus heading in his direction gave Q an idea. "A brief stop, first. No, not yet," as Bond moved to press the bell a moment later. "Two more." 

They alighted further down the road towards Stockwell. 'Little Portugal', pretentious estate agents had taken to calling the area, trying to erase the cultural memory of Juan Charles de Menezes' death, the only claim to fame Stockwell had. That, and an incredibly convenient cross-platform transfer between the Northern and Victoria lines. Most of the station's users never ventured up the escalators to outside. They weren't missing much. 

"Good, they're still open." He led Bond into a small bakery-cum-deli, various pastries being removed from the window and dishes being covered with paper to keep them fresh until morning. 

"Boa noite! What can I do for you, hm?" 

"Could I have – six meals? Anything that will keep a couple days and reheat? And do you have any natas left? Yes, three is fine. And some of those doughnuts, please?" 

Bond had interjected there, with a sentence Q correctly interpreted as 'may I practise my Portuguese with you?' And was met with pleasure and polite ribbing over his Brazilian accent. He gathered that Q came in regularly to stock up on microwaveable meals and healthy snacks, but also on buns and pastries of all sorts. Sometimes he'd come in the morning to buy pastries for a Q-Brancher’s birthday and a coffee, but a visit just before they shut at eight was more usual, at least once a week. 

"I'm happy you make him eat good meal most nights. This all food sees wonderful," Bond told the server, ungrammatically but with enthusiasm. 

Q appeared to understand, but couldn't be bothered to argue, exclaiming only, "si, bifanas fritas, due!" 

The woman nodded, fished a large scoop of thin chips into a paper bag, added another giant sandwich, and took Q's credit card. 

"Boa noite, valeu!" 

"Até logo, tschau," the assistant replied to Q. _See you soon and goodbye_. 

"Tschau, falou," Bond agreed. 

"I didn't know you could speak Portuguese," Q said, once they were outside the jangling door. 

"I can't." James shrugged. "OK, I can do pleasantries and numbers and another five hundred words or so. Tourist level." 

" _I_ manage tourist level. You had a conversation." 

Bond pursed his lips dismissively. "You probably know as many words as I do. A Berlitz phrasebook and Duolingo, right?" 

Q acknowledged that was so. 

"Exactly. The difference is practice in applying those words. Think about it – how often do I get dropped in a foreign country with only that much of the local language? It's like acting, which let's face it is what I _do_ – you've got to get a message across so you start gluing words together, even if they're not the right ones, use grammar from similar languages, and five-hundred words gets you by pretty well." 

"I heard a thousand words, plus some technical words adapted from English, means you can be fairly fluent." 

"The longer the word, the more likely it is to be understood? That’s true. Works up to the Urals, anyway. The Feynman approach." 

"Always a good one." Q recalled Richard Feynman's attempt to impress a woman with his limited Portuguese; unable to recall the word for 'so', he'd known _-ly_ becomes _-mente_ in Portuguese, and consequently dazzled her with _'consequentamente'_. "I try to follow the 'you try to figure out if it's a window or not' rule." 

Of _course_ Q would have read 'Surely you're Joking, Mr Feynman?' 

They walked the few hundred yards back to Q's flat during the conversation. "Come in. Don't touch anything on the table. They did hot sandwiches and chips for both of us, so you might as well enjoy." 

__Bond recalled Q had asked for two portions specifically, and felt his heart warmed. He wasn't being seen only as an imposition upon Q's life, then._ _

__Bond looked round the flat. Before, he'd always been assessing the rooms from a security point of view. This time, as soon as he'd confirmed it clear, he could admire the view over the river and how Q had stamped his personality on the place._ _

__The lighting was perfect. A work table had spotlights and lamps illuminating it, the kitchen had strips of LEDs everywhere they might be needed, no shadows getting in the way. The sofa had standard lamps at each end._ _

__A few framed prints decorated the far wall – Bond recognised one as Escher, but not the other black and white images. No CDs or vinyl were visible, Q having clearly adopted computer storage for his music, but there were two IKEA bookcases near-full of books – some science fiction, some engineering and cryptography reference, but also many non-fiction and autobiographies. Bond wasn't sure what he'd expected Q's reading tastes to be, but the lives of the actor Alan Cumming and chef Nigel Slater weren't it._ _

__A third bookcase held board games and a few leafy green plants Bond identified as 'non-toxic, non-edible, not dead.'_ _

__"Sit down. What can I get you? Bottle of beer, tea, coffee... Er, that's it, apart from water."_ _

__Bond accepted the Portuguese beer, settled himself on the leather sofa (good quality, designed for durability not fashion), and bit into the pork sandwich._ _

__"Mm. That hits the spot."_ _

__Q dropped salt, ketchup and malt vinegar onto the glass coffee table, with a pile of napkins from the deli or other takeaways. "They do, don't they? Like a kebab, only without playing doner roulette to see if you get food poisoning or just kill yourself on unexpected hot sauce and chilis!"_ _

__Bond noted Q sat at the other end of the sofa, turned as to see him easily, but clearly not trying to make a move. He supposed this was a relief. They continued chatting easily, about work and food and politics, until all their dinner and several pastries were gone._ _

__"I'm glad to know you have meals for the next few days," Bond said._ _

__"Mm. They are good. If a bit obsessed with hundreds of versions of baked cod."_ _

__"What else did we lose the Cod Wars for? Anyway, you're now nourished; I'll get out of your hair."_ _

__Q clawed his fingers through his hair as he stood up to say goodbye, tidying it as he did before meetings, to make a good impression._ _

__Was that pure coincidence, Bond wondered? What _would_ he do, if Q did make a move on him?_ _

__It wasn't worth considering. The boffin might be more confident in his own milieu than he gave the impression of being, but Bond couldn't imagine him seducing anyone, let alone the infamous 007._ _

__Bond returned in the morning and escorted Q to work for 9 am. It was 9 pm when they left the office. No more pastries tonight, then._ _

__"I need to hit the big Sainsbury's on the way home. Might as well make use of your strong arms to stock up."_ _

__"One arm. I need to keep one free. Duty calls."_ _

__"If you insist."_ _

__Only as they entered the bus station did Bond notice some too-casual men. He held Q's arm back. Q stopped abruptly._ _

__"Two o'clock, two?"_ _

__Bond nodded, ostensibly staring at the digital clock. "Yes, and two more at ten o'clock. Let's veer left, into the station."_ _

__The excellent CCTV coverage as well as the crowds made this the obvious choice. So obvious, indeed, that the two men to their left winked at another pair, loitering inside the barriers._ _

__"Scrap that. Into the Sainsbo's Local."_ _

__"Please. We don't want a scene this close to work."_ _

__Bond and Q moved swiftly to the back of the store; the other two men hovered out front._ _

__"Right. Call backup. I'll go out the fire exit in a minute and deal with the two who are no doubt waiting."_ _

__Q sent an emergency message to both the Met and British Transport Police, though the latter would merely keep people out of the way, not having their own armed teams, until SCO19 or an ARV showed up. Then he spotted the two stalkers entering the small supermarket, hands inside jackets meaning they were about to pull firearms._ _

__"Bugger. Out we go." James, gun drawn, dragged Q behind him, slamming the metal fire door after them. An alarm rang inside, hopefully deterring anyone from following them._ _

__James shot the man in front of him before the gun being raised could send a bullet the other way. The next baddie got off a shot that went wildly astray – not experienced, just hired grunts, Q concluded – but decided to flee when Bond gave chase. Q followed Bond running along the arches, until they could duck into an alcove and Bond could accurately fire._ _

__"He's down. Shit, here come their mates."_ _

__Bond shot again, three times. The shots were less loud than the thud of the falling body behind them, but both he and Q heard the click of an empty round being chambered._ _

__“Shit,” Bond said, pushing Q behind him as one of the third pair of thugs shot wildly in their general direction, and steeling himself for a fist fight. He wore three knives which could be drawn if necessary, but not before – first rule of bearing weapons was that any visible weapon could be used against you._ _

__Q squawked, "Ow!" as he stumbled. But then, crouching behind Bond, he suddenly recognised the grey metal bars attached to blackened brick, and realised which arch they were adjacent to. If he'd had time, he'd have laughed, but he simply called, "Quick! In here!"_ _

__To Bond's surprise, the heavy barred gate across the arch was ajar. Behind it, Q buzzed an intercom which immediately let them inside the security door, a slab of grey metal. He closed it behind them, leaning on the thick clanging surface in relief. Bond looked about him in curiosity._ _

__A small ticket window was before them, black brick walls all around, dimly lit with a bare bulb. Q was showing an ID card and asking the brick-shithouse chap behind the window to keep the doors locked until police confirmed the 'incident' outside was dealt with._ _

__"Of course, Mr Williams. Shooting, you say? Bad business. May I see ID for your guest?"_ _

__Q was outwardly the picture of calm, though to Bond he seemed more nervous now than when they'd been being shot at._ _

__Q swallowed and found his voice. "Sweetie, show the man a credit card." Bond guessed from the phrasing it didn't matter which identity he used. As he selected a card which would alert MI6 to its location as soon as it was scanned, Q passed him an object extracted from the bottom of his messenger bag._ _

__"Hold that, and put it on. The loosest hole should fit."_ _

__Bond realised he had a thick leather collar in his hands. Which clued him in to what sort of nightclub this was._ _

__"Must I?"_ _

__Q's glare was all Quartermaster, now. He stepped up to Bond, into his personal space, and raised Bond's chin with one finger._ _

__"Yes, you do. To blend in. And because that was an _order_." He bit off '007' at the end of the sentence with effort. " _Brat_."_ _

__Bond shrugged and complied. Q was as tall as he was, albeit built on slender lines unlike Bond's broad frame. When he put his mind to it, the young Quartermaster could intimidate with the best of them. Bond might not understand _why_ this order, which meant it was an order he would follow at least until he did. The wear lines in the leather showed it had been worn previously by someone with a more slender neck. Q himself, he assumed._ _

__"You've got your work cut out there," the ticket guy chuckled, buzzing them through a second metal door. "Changing room is on the left," he added to Bond._ _

__"You're telling me," Q gave a heartfelt mutter. Bond wasn't sure why he felt so affronted._ _

__Inside the first cavernous room under the railway arch was a bar. Q limped to a stool and sat down heavily._ _

__"You're injured."_ _

__"Mm. What soft drink would you like?"_ _

__"Huh?" Bond knelt by Q's side to examine his ankle._ _

__"Yes, that looks good. Lemonade?"_ _

__"That's fine." If Q didn't want him drinking, that was fine by him. "It looks like a slight twist led to you spraining your ankle. If I could strap it up, it should be fine in a day or two."_ _

__"Oh, good. No, stay down there. It's in character."_ _

__Confused, Bond looked around as he sipped his lemonade. Of course. He had a collar, ergo people would assume he was submissive, therefore kneeling by his companion's feet was appropriate. Ah, well. A nice sit down on a mission, a chance to relax, was never to be sneezed at._ _

__Some minutes later, Q beckoned James up onto an adjacent bar stool. "Come to the gents with me. You can strap up my ankle with your tie or something, but also I should be able to rig up some phone reception to find out what's going on outside."_ _

__Q faced the far wall, the door to his back. A couple men entered while Bond was working on Q's ankle, and their murmurs of appreciation showed their assumption as to what Bond was doing._ _

Bond wasn't surprised by that, but he _was_ surprised when Q started making noises to support the theory that Bond was kneeling to give Q a blow job. 

Quite erotic noises, if he thought about it. He added a few choked moans of his own until the intruders went away. He tried not to think about the angle of Q's corduroy trousers in front of his face. 

"Excellent acting, James. You play the part of a sub rather well. No, stay down there, while I get my phone hooked up... It's a pleasant novelty to see you obeying orders without argument, I must say. Best be careful; a Quartermaster might get used to such things..." 

Bond fondled the collar around his neck. "Ooh, snarky. Do the men you wear this for say the same about you?" 

Q shook himself, suddenly startled. He quickly regained composure and glared down at his bodyguard. 

"Bond, what on Earth makes you think that _I'd_ be the submissive?" 

**Author's Note:**

> *I wrote a long rant about all the things fic writers get wrong about BondBritain, but it's too boring for anyone to want to read. In particular, no-one would ever drive to the nearest pub; there are half a dozen within five minutes' walk of MI6 and nowhere to park anyway. It's also very unlikely they'd drive to work unless security demanded it. They definitely wouldn't drive to Soho, Leicester Square or the National Gallery! 
> 
> And just don't use the phrase 'electric kettle', OK? 
> 
> Slight anachronism in that The Hoist closed in 2016 and the new American Embassy didn’t open until 2018, but otherwise this should be fairly accurate for anywhere set in the last 10-20 years.


End file.
